Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.

"This is the worst Thanksgiving that I've ever had," Joss says wearily. "And I'm including the time when I was ten and my grandma threw the turkey at my Grandpa because she thought he was having an affair with the woman at the grocery store."

"Did she hit him?" John's voice, usually low is raspier than usual. Whether due to blood loss or concussion she's not sure. It doesn't really matter anyway, but keeping him conscious seems a good idea. Whatever plan she comes up with to get them out of this isn't going to work if he can't move even if it's with her help. Besides without him to focus on she really might start to panic.

"Nah." She twists a little. Her right hand trapped in the handcuffs is going numb but there's not much she can do about that; the metal pole she and Reese are cuffed to is immovable and the keys are so far out of reach that they might as well be on Mars. She can feel the warmth of John's hand on the other side of the pole and resists the urge to check his pulse. "Grams had glaucoma and it went through the window instead. The dog in next door's yard ran off with it. Turned out she'd mistaken the woman's fiancé for Grandpa anyway. She let mom take her to the optician after that." With her left hand she keeps the pressure on his thigh. The bullet that had hit him is still in there, which is in one way a blessing since with only one hand there was no way to try and stem the bleeding from both an entrance and exit wound, but she doesn't want to think about what kind of damage it might be doing.

"So turkeys really can fly?" His mouth twitches in a smile. Usually such a terrible pun would get a tart retort in response, but his face is pale and the bleeding isn't stopping. As though he'd read her thoughts Reese's gray eyes focus on her.

"Seriously?" Carter plays the game and attempts a laugh. "That's so lame."

"You smiled." John rests his head against the pole they're chained to. The silver at his temples has turned dark with sweat and he's so close that Joss can hear his breath hitch.

"That wasn't a smile it was a grimace, and don't pass out on me y'hear!"

"Bossy." His voice is so low that she almost doesn't hear it. Desperately she looks around. The boat that they are in is small but luxurious, perhaps if she and a bleeding out John Reese weren't chained up in one of the cabins, the only crew member's body was a few feet away and they were drifting out into the Atlantic Ocean she might have appreciated the trip. Add in the fact that the boat was slowly tilting sideways which suggested that one of the bullets fired earlier had penetrated the hull, and she kinda wished that she was back at her grandma's house all those years ago.

Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.

(A bit AU in that I'm ignoring the end of season one and the start of season two. Fusco and Carter both know who they are working for and that they are both on the same side though and Taylor knows that Reese has saved both him and his mother in the past.)

Three days earlier:

"So it's Thanksgiving this weekend." Taylor's words would be mistaken as nonchalant making-chatter-at-the-dinnertable to most people, but Joss knows better. When her son initiates casual conversation there's always an end-game to it. Slicing open the baked potatoes and flipping over the steaks in the pan, she buys time by fishing out two matching pairs of knives and forks out of the cutlery drawer.

Scenario number one: he's got a girlfriend that she doesn't know about and he's been invited over, in which case she'll play nice, let him go, demand to meet her and make a collage out of his most embarrassing childhood photographs.

Scenario two: he's got a girlfriend that she doesn't know about and he wants to invite her over for Thanksgiving in which case she'll order a bigger turkey and make Taylor hoover the apartment and peel the vegetables for dinner.

Scenario three comes as something of a surprise.

"I think that we should invite John over." Her son picks up the cutlery that she's put on the sideboard and carefully puts it each side of the place-mats. "I mean guys like him probably don't have any family and he did save my life and yours."

that she hadn't been expecting. Absently sliding the steaks onto the plates, Joss thinks of a suitable response.

"I'm not sure that a family Thanksgiving meal is really John's style," she says eventually. "Besides he's the one to get in contact with me – I can't exactly send him an invitation."

Taylor takes his plate from her and sits down at their little dinner table. "That's such a cop-out," he says dismissively, smearing butter over his potato. "If you want to get in touch with Reese then go and stand in the middle of the road and wait for him to rescue you from an oncoming truck or something."

"That's..." Joss pauses. She knows that John and Finch have eyes everywhere and know that if she were in trouble then Reese would rescue her long before her fellow cops would. Getting herself into trouble deliberately would be utterly ridiculous though. "You want me to try and get myself run down by a truck?" She asks. "Thanks."

"Not run down," Taylor explains through a mouthful of steak. "Just a bit in danger." He swallows and gives her a calculating look. "Don't you like him?"

Yes, actually, she did like John Reese. A lot. But just because he was ridiculously attractive, honourable in his own unique way andkind did not mean that it was a good idea to invite him into her home. Especially since aside from a few flirtatious remarks he'd shown no interest in her aside from what she could do for him as a Detective.

"Of course I like him," Joss says carefully. "I wouldn't work with him if I didn't."

"So why not invite him for dinner? You work with Lionel and he's been over – what's the difference?"

I don't fantasize about seeing Lionel naked, is her first thought, but she settles for "you know baseball isn't really my thing. Lionel misses his son and I thought that my charming boy would know how to cheer him up." Joss smiles sweetly at Taylor who huffs in disbelief.

"That's your excuse. Come on why's it so hard for you to say that you wanted to do something nice for him? If someone had my back the whole time then I'd cook for them sometimes too."

"You can't cook," Joss points out dryly.

"Well I'd order take-out then," he retorts stubbornly. "John's got your, our, back, I think that we should cook for him."

He did have a point. While she did help him when he needed it, more often than not it ended up with her and Fusco taking the credit for solving cases that she often didn't have much to do with. Maybe she should at least offer, and looking at Taylor's dark eyes she knows that he's not going to let go of this particular argument anytime soon.

"I'll ask him," she says eventually. "If I see him."

"Promise." Between the two of them the single word is as holy as swearing on a stack of Bibles.

"Promise. Now eat before it gets cold."

He probably wouldn't get in contact with her until after Thanksgiving, Joss tells herself. And even if he did the odds of him saying yes to her invitation are pretty much zero.

Her cellphone rings and she doesn't have to look at the number to know who's calling her when she pulls it from her pocket.


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"I'd love to."

John only takes a moment to answer her half-hearted invitation, and for a moment Joss is utterly lost for words. The semi-conscious drug dealer lying between them groans and she looks at him because it's easier than looking at John who looks cool and unruffled even after a fist fight that had her wincing in sympathy.

"Carter?" He sounds almost uncertain. "Are you alright? If you didn't mean..."

It's past two in the morning. She's standing in a little park with the stars overhead, NewYork's overseas supplier of a new designer drug at her feet and as Taylor would label him, a "bad-ass" watching her with what looks like ill-disguised anxiety. She kinda wants to laugh.

"I reckon you've earned dinner." She gives him a smile that is wholly genuine. "We eat at three. If you want to come earlier Taylor's got the new Black Ops game so you can kick his ass at it if you want to work up an appetite."

"I look forward to it."

The sirens are coming closer and she cocks her head towards the park gates. "Get out of here before you're caught."

He doesn't say anything, but she can see his brief smile (not a smirk for once, but then it had been a night of firsts) before he lopes off into the darkness. She keeps her own expression neutral when the cops arrive and parrots the wholly unbelievable story that John had given her. The good guys have won, a drug dealer is behind bars, and really that's all her lieutenant really cares about. Hey for all he knew she could have been taking a short-cut to a friend's home through that particular park at that particular time.

But now she's got to make a Thanksgiving dinner for her son and Reese. Somehow she doesn't think that will be quite as easy.

Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.

"Good morning Mr Reese." Harold doesn't look up from his computer when John enters what has been dubbed "The Office" in the library, and John has long since given up on trying to sneak up on him. The aroma of his coffee probably alerts the older man to his presence anyway, and he takes a sip of it while placing Finch's Sencha tea on his desk. "Very nice work last night. Mr Banks is awaiting extradition, but unfortunately someone has hacked into his bank accounts leaving them all but empty. It seems that he'll have to let go of that high priced lawyer he had on retainer."

"A pity." John smiles and swallows another hit of caffeine. "And if you could hazard a guess, where do you think that money went?"

"I couldn't possibly begin to speculate, but if a couple of drug re-rehabilitation centres had experienced unexpected windfalls it would perhaps be an act of karma don't you think?"

Or a reclusive billionaire with genius hacking skills, John thinks. He doesn't say it out loud though – in a strange sort of way he acknowledges that Harold considers it vulgar to discuss money, especially the money he donates to various charities. Anyway, what does he know about karma? Maybe it does actually come in a dapper, bespectacled package.

"I'd say good luck to them," he says smoothly. "Do we have another number yet?"

"As a matter of fact we do." Finch 's brow furrows as he clicks on the screen and brings up a grainy ID photograph. "In fact your timing is impeccable; I was going to call you as soon as I had a little more information on the case. The number only came up twenty minutes ago."

The image on the screen is of a woman who looks to be in her early twenties, but John guesses her real age at perhaps seventeen or eighteen. The thick make-up is ageing, but it's the look in her eyes that truly makes her appear older. Her eyes are dead. Blank. It could be due to narcotics but he doesn't think so – her pupils appear normal and there are none of the tell-tale signs of Meth or cocaine addiction. He feels a prickle of unease.

"Who is she?"

"Jacey Brundett." Harold pulls up another tab, this one a copy of a driver's licence. "Sixteen years old, born in Alabama. Moved to Albany when she was nine. Average grades in school until she dropped out six months ago. The missing person's report was filed by a school friend but it doesn't look as though anything was done about it by the local police. Presumably she was classed as being a runaway."

"Parents?"

Harold exhales tiredly. "Father is unknown, mother has four other children aged eight to thirteen in different foster homes. She's currently serving eighteen months for aggravated assault." At Reese's raised eyebrow he elaborates. "She got into an affray with another woman at a bar and hit her over the head with a bottle. The woman lost an eye."

"Mommy Dearest," John murmurers. "I can see why the girl would want to get away. Why is she now on the radar?"

"I'm not sure." Harold's fingers tap quickly over the keyboard. "I have footage of her using a cellphone but it's a prepaid burner – essentially untraceable."

"Not the usual choice for a teenager."

"Not at all Mr Reese." He brings up another picture, obviously from a security camera. The quality of the photograph is poor, but the young woman getting into the big car is unmistakably Jacey. "And most runaway teens don't usually get picked up outside hotels by chauffeur driven Bentleys."

"Prostitution." John controls his temper but it's difficult. A little voice inside his head tells him that had his life gone down a different path he himself could have had a teenage daughter. It's a stupid, pointless thought and he tamps it down swiftly. "Can you find the car?"

"I'm doing it was we speak. It may take a few minutes." Harold lets his software do its thing and swivels his chair towards his partner. "There's an excellent cookery book on the shelf by the stairs if you'd like to borrow it." When John merely gives him a confused look, he sighs and elaborates. "Since you are going to be spending Thanksgiving at Detective Carter's home it would be polite to bring an offering to the table. Pumpkin Pie for example. Or a salad."

John's face manages to go through confused, annoyed and worried in a second before settling on mildly irritated. Harold speaks before he can give a sarcastic retort, however.

"I don't make a habit of intruding on your private conversations Mr Reese, but when you are in the company of criminals, be they apprehended or not, it is my job to make sure that you are safe, even if it does mean that I hear things not meant for my ears. Detective Carter strikes me as being somewhat of a traditionalist and so it is only fair for me to advise you of a potentially awkward situation."

If John wasn't so blind-sided by the conversation he might have laughed. There are two pink spots of colour on Finch's cheekbones and he senses that his employer and, almost, perhaps, friend feels as awkward about the whole situation as he does.

And what did he think about the situation he had willingly put himself in? All he could remember was Joss, her dark eyes bright in the chilly autumn night and the way her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip before she asked him to come to dinner. He'd have said yes to anything she'd offered at that moment whether it was taking out her garbage for a month or any one of the many, many things he thought about when he was beneath his cold bedsheets, hot and hard and with only his hand to ease the pressure.

"I thought that I'd just take her some flowers," he says eventually.

Harold's expression tells him exactly what he thinks of that idea before he utters a word.

"You do realise that her son is going to be there? Flowers are for first dates, not sharing a family meal. If you want to make a good impression then you'll have to expend at least a little effort."

"Says the man who lives on take-out," Reese retorts. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Happily ignoring it," Harold says blithely. " I see no reason to celebrate the decimation of the Native American people with gluttony, and for your information take-out from restaurants with at least one Michelin star comes under the umbrella of eating-out-but-in."

John peers out of the window at the city below before he slumps back into his favourite chair, almost dislodging a pile of ancient detective novels. "You celebrate the fourth of July and the War of Independence had a pretty high body-count," he points out. "And you've made up eating-out-but-in."

"Indeed,"Finch says without rancour, "but Independence Day has the best fireworks, and if you're a reclusive billionaire then one of the perks is making up your own lexicon."

The computer beeps, Harold turning to it before Reese can think of a snarky reply. Instead he gets up and watches as his employer pulls up a file. The unremarkable face of a middle aged white man fills the screen. It takes only a second for him to recognise him; after all he had been all over the papers defending the mayor in a recent sex scandal. Known as the Hawk in legal circles for his utter ruthlessness in tearing apart the reputations and validity of those who testified against his clients there nonetheless had never been a breath of scandal attached to Grayson Kent's name. Never married, never in the tabloid press. Used to the worst that power brought out in men John had vaguely wondered if the man was asexual and got his kicks from the courtroom not the bedroom.

The blurry photo of Jacey getting into his car suggested not.

"Where is he?" Harold gives him a don't-dismember-him-because-we-might-need-him-later look but brings up the address of Kent's townhouse.

"Be careful Mr Reese," Harold says as he snatches up the car keys to the latest anonymous looking vehicle purchased for the week and tosses them to his partner.

"I always am, Harold." John jogs down the hallway checking his ammo and the guns at his back and side even though he knows that they are safely secured and in perfect working order. He pauses briefly at the top of the stairs.

"101 Thanksgiving Recipes." The cover of the slim volume is obnoxiously orange and out of place, especially in contrast to the leather bound books in various states of genteel decay that surround it. John grabs it, tucks it under his arm so that he doesn't have to look at the dementedly grinning picture of the woman wielding a spatula on the back cover and heads towards the door.

It doesn't take long for John to drive to Grayson Kent's home. The lawyer's abode is a three story Town House with simple elegant lines. Unfussy but expensive – shades of the man who owns it, John thinks. He's seen photographs of Kent and recognises that the deceptively simple suits he favours come with a very hefty price tag. The Bentley is parked outside, the motor turned off but the chauffeur is still in situ, reading the newspaper he has propped on the steering wheel. The back seat is empty however and there is no sign of Jacey. Reese parks his clean but not particularly new Range Rover a little further up the road and waits.

"Harold?" It takes a moment for his employer's voice to come through the ear-piece.

"Mr Reese? Is there a problem?"

"Not really."John keeps his eye on his surroundings. No-one seems to be paying him any attention but getting a parking ticket while doing surveillance would be a bit embarrassing. "Do you have any information on Miss Brundett's siblings? She's probably frightened and I can't see her trusting me unless she has an incentive to do so."

"Good thinking Mr Reese." Harold sounds almost proud. "Give me a moment and I'll brief you on everything I know."

It's almost an hour before the front door to the Town House opens and a young woman steps out. She wears a long coat and her hair is curled up in a loose bun. But for her youth and the way that she stumbles slightly as she walks to the car, she would barely have merited a second glance in this quiet neighbourhood. The chauffeur gets out and opens the back door for her, and within a moment the sleek Bentley is on the move. John waits for a moment before following them, careful to always remain inconspicuous without losing his target. There is no reason for the driver to be suspicious and he certainly doesn't seem to be in any hurry, but Reese is careful nonetheless. After a while it becomes clear that their destination is East Broadway and the car finally stops beside a small, slightly scruffy apartment block bracketed by a busy laundrette and a Chinese restaurant. John slows down as the girl gets out of the Bently and steps carefully up the front steps before disappearing into the building. Parking his car around the corner he feeds the meter a handful of change and heads back to the apartment block.

The doors to the building are open, the small lobby space drab, dank and smelling of things that Reese doesn't want to think about. On the left a row of numbered mailboxes are bolted to he wall, to the right a staircase heads up to the next floor. Sat upon the bottom step a small boy of Latino origin watches him with curious dark eyes.

"Hi." John smiles at the child and tries to look friendly. "Do you live here?"

After a moment of obviously deciding whether or not the stranger should be engaged with the boy gives a short nod. John crouches down and rests his arms on his knees in an attempt to look less threatening before meeting the boy's gaze. "I'm looking for a friend of mine who just came in a minute ago. A young lady called Jacey; do you know her?"

The boy stiffens and his eyes turn suspicious. "Jacey's nice. She gives me peanut butter cups sometimes."

Reese nods in understanding. "I think that Jacey's in trouble and I want to help her. Do you know which apartment she's in?"

The boy obviously wavers between answering and bolting past him, but eventually he nods once again. "She's in number fifteen. The bad man yelled at her when she went in. I don't like him, he's mean."

"Well I think I'm going to have to have a talk with that bad man," John says softly. "What's your name?"

"Eduardo." The boy's eyes widen when Reese takes a five dollar bill from his pocket and gives it to him.

"This ought to keep you in peanut butter cups for a while. Why don't you go out and spend it?" Eduardo doesn't need asking twice, scampering through the door and out of sight.

John takes the stairs two at a time. The threadbare carpet doesn't do much to muffle his footsteps, but by the time he's halfway down the hallway he gives up on stealth anyway. The sound of a woman sobbing and a man's voice shouting in anger gets louder as he reaches the door of apartment fifteen. He doesn't bother knocking. Without breaking stride he draws his gun and kicks the door open; the muscular young man pinning the young woman to the bed barely has time to realise that they have company before John has dragged him up and slammed him against the wall.

"If you take a woman to bed and she starts crying, you're doing it wrong." He punches the man in the stomach and lets him slide to the floor. Looking behind him he sees Jacey watching, her eyes almost comically wide. She glances quickly at the open doorway and Reese gives a quick shake of his head. "I'm here to help you – try running and you won't get far anyway." She slumps back against the headboard at that, tucking her legs up against her chest.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man he's just taken down is struggling to his feet, and John lets him, giving him the once-over. Caucasian, early thirties, well muscled but lacking the tattoos or shaved head of Neo-Nazi gangs. Blond hair, blue eyes, preppy if it were not for the surroundings and the malice that practically radiated from him. John waits for him to go for the gun tucked in the waistband of his designer jeans before snapping his wrist and elbowing him in the face. His nose gives way with a satisfying crunch and this time the man does not get up when he drops to the floor.

Taking the gun, the wallet and cellphone he finds in the man's pockets, John turns his attention to the girl huddled on the bed.

"Jacey." He keeps his voice soft and calm as though she were a frightened animal. "My name is John. I meant what I said. I'm here to help you, I promise that I won't hurt you."

"Why?" She's so tense that the flimsy iron bedstead is rattling against the wall in time with her shivers. "What's one more whore to anyone? If you wanted another girl for your stable then why didn't you just buy me. I'm the one who's going to pay for this."

"You don't belong to anyone. Not any more." Reese shrugs his coat jacket off and hands it to the young blonde. Her dress is ripped and it was skimpy to start with. She eyes the expensive material with distrust. "You're someone to Kacey and Tina," he says quietly. "And your twin brothers, how long since you've seen them?"

Jacey takes a deep shuddering breath. Despite the make-up smeared by the tears running down her cheeks and the red bra showing through her shredded dress she looks far younger than her years.

"Have you seen them?" She asks shakily. "Are they OK?"

"Don't worry, they're fine," He keeps his distance when she takes his jacket and pulls it over her shoulders. "But I bet they miss their big sister."

"I miss them too." She gives him a searching look. "Why do you want to help me?"

"It's my job." John gives her his best smile and isn't offended when she laughs slightly hysterically.

"Like Batman. But without the cape. Do you have an Alfred to bring you tea in the morning?"

"Capes don't suit me." This time when he looks at Jacey she gives a faint smile back. "I'm the one who buys tea for my Alfred."

"He's not a very good butler then." There's still a faint trace of a southern accent in her voice that hints at a charm that has been all but beaten out of her. John can almost hear the "click" in her brain when she decides to trust him.

"He's not, but he is a very good friend. We should go now, it's not safe here."

"Alright." At the mention of her siblings Jacey's eyes had brightened as though any sort of hope had energised her. Wriggling off the bed she looks at the man lying in a crumpled heap in the corner. "What about him?"

"He'll be taken care of." Jacey gives him a nervous look and he amends the statement. "I have a couple of friends in the police force that deal with people like him, and no," Reese says when she opens her mouth to protest. "You aren't in any trouble."

No-one gives them a second look when they exit the building and Jacey doesn't baulk when John helps her into the Range Rover. She puts her seatbelt on and pulls her short skirt down over her knees primly. There's a bruise forming on her cheekbone and scrapes on her knees. Reese resists the urge to go back to the apartment building and finish off the blond, preppy pimp for good.


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"Wallmart?" When Reese turns into the parking lot of the store Jacey gives him a confused look. "This is kind of a strange time to go shopping."

You don't have any clothes other than what you're wearing and that's not suitable for going out in public," John says firmly. "I'm going to get you something more comfortable. Write down your dress and shoe size on here." He unlocks the glove compartment and gives the young woman a notepad and pen. She hesitates for a moment before scribbling down her measurements.

"Thank-you." He tears off the page and folds it into his hand. "I'm going to be back as fast as I can, but I need you to stay down and keep out of sight. If you feel that you are in any danger then I want you to lean on the horn and I'll come running. Do you understand?"

She gives him a searching look before nodding and sliding down in her seat.

"Good girl." John locks the doors behind him and makes his way to the store as quickly as he can without drawing attention to himself. Grabbing a basket he heads towards the women's wear and snags a couple of pairs of jeans and a three pack of T-shirts in her size along with a pair of sneakers, two sweaters and a duffel coat. Underwear is a bit more tricky – he feels a bit like a pervert looking at the array of lacy little nothings and the coquettish cut-outs of models advertising them. Jacey hadn't given her bra size but she's a little smaller than Jessica he thinks. Giving up on guessing, John selects three plain white bras in different sizes along with two multipacks of plain bikini briefs. He can't imagine her relaxing around him unless he's proven that he doesn't have any ulterior motives and reassurance can sometimes be as simple as being fully clothed.

As an afterthought he swings by the frozen food isle, tossing in a packet of pastry and picking up a couple of cans each of condensed milk and puréed pumpkin before adding a couple of sachets of nutmeg and and ground ginger. There's probably something he's missed from the recipe in Harold's book, but he's not going to risk Jacey's safety for the sake of making a pumpkin pie. Even if it is for Joss.

After paying for his purchases and shoving them into plastic bags, John carefully scans the parking lot before jogging over to his vehicle. Jacey peers up from the stairwell of the passenger seat and he gives her a smile before tossing his purchases onto the back seat.

She doesn't say anything when he unlocks the door and starts up the engine. Reese has the feeling that she's too tired and has lost the will to fight anyway. She smiles though when they get to his place, eyes wide as she takes in the scale of his apartment, the bright lights of the city outside the huge windows. He gives her the bags of clothing and gently pushes her towards the bathroom. When she comes out a good half an hour later her hair is damp and her face scrubbed. Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans she hesitantly goes over to the kitchen, quietly watching as John tries to decipher the instructions on the packet of pastry.

"Pumpkin Pie?" She wrinkles her nose up at his choice in filling after perusing the variety of cans on the side-board. "Not the best choice but still salvageable."

"I'm following the recipe in the book. " Reese holds up the orange book that Finch had recommended. "It's sold five million copies."

"It's ghost-written and the woman in the photo is a size zero. Would you really think she'd eat anything in that?"

John keeps his attention on the lump of pastry on the counter that remained anything but malleable despite the promises on the packaging. Jacey takes a couple of steps closer, obviously waiting to see what he would do before finally relaxing a little.

"Honestly the last time I was invited to a Thanksgiving meal I was a kid and didn't have to cook. I'll take all the help I can get," he continues. "Maybe you could help me and we could order pizza. Do you like pizza?"

Jacey picks up a packet of ground nutmeg and raises an eyebrow. "You're really weird you know," she says eventually.

"Pizza it is then." John takes the nutmeg out of her hand gently. "I'm going to need to know what happened to you Jacey."

She hesitates, looking around his place. It's not very comforting for a young, traumatised woman, John thinks. There are no pictures on the wall, no ornaments on the shelves or postcards pinned to the refrigerator. To her it must seem utterly sterile. Without thinking John pulls out his cellphone and scrolls down to find what he is looking for. He'd been on surveillance and Joss hadn't known that he had been following her at the time. The photo is a brief moment when she'd tossed the crust of her sandwich to a couple of sparrows. The birds are squabbling and she is laughing at their antics, eyes bright and utterly beautiful.

"The pie's for her."

Jacey takes the phone and gives a slow sad smile. "Turn the oven on, you can't do anything unless it's pre-heated even I know that. I'll talk and we can both cook."

Jacey's put him on pastry duty and that's alright with John. Rolling out the dough gives him something to focus on while she tells her story. In turn she seems to find comfort in opening the cans of pumpkin purée and measuring out the spices once she's found a saucepan to her liking.

In the kitchen she's a different young woman to the one that he had rescued from the apartment building. Her hands are quick, deft as she measures and stirs. Briefly she seems to catch herself so as not to order him out the way.

"You like to cook." Reese keeps his tone neutral, but when she gives a quick smile he returns it. "Me, I'm alright with the basics but it's not much fun cooking fancy things for just one person. I live off take out."

"Pumpkin pie isn't fancy," Jacey protests. Stirring the mixture, she takes the saucepan off the heat before adding the condensed milk. "Mom wasn't exactly big on the whole home cooking thing so I learned pretty fast. Josh and Jake didn't even care what was in their sandwiches so long as you cut them into a bunny shape. What are you doing?" She looks utterly perplexed at his attempts to put the pastry into the tin that he had found in the cupboard. "That's square – do you have a round one?"

John honestly isn't sure. He knows where he's hidden his weapons in the kitchen but he hasn't bothered to get to know the well stocked cupboards beyond using a couple of plates and bowls.

"There's..." He pulls out the drawer underneath the oven. "These."

Jacey quickly sorts through the half dozen tins inside it before finding one to her liking. "Do you have any butter?"

John opens the fridge and hands her an unopened packet.

"Who is she? The woman in the picture."

"A friend."

"No she isn't." The young blonde takes the pat of butter that John hands her, greasing the tin before carefully arranging the pastry inside it and pouring in the pumpkin mix. "I mean you two might be friendly but come on. Keeping a picture of her on your phone? What is she, an ex?"

John leans back against the counter. Somewhere out there Finch is probably laughing at him.

Jacey saves him from having to respond to a question that he doesn't know how to answer.

"Not an ex then, a maybe if you weren't friends thing?" She puts the dirty bowls in the sink and cleans them, handing them over to John who dries them and puts them away. "Does she know that you're in love with her?"

"She's a friend." Despite the fact that Jacey had already dismissed that assertion John repeats it anyway. Perhaps if he said it enough times it would magically become true. She quirks an eyebrow up in disbelief at that but doesn't push for further information.

"You said that my sisters and my brothers were safe. Is that true?"

"As far as I know." Lying to the girl would be pointless – she'd see through him in a heartbeat. "They're in the foster system, a friend of mine is trying to locate them."

"The woman in the photograph?"

"No. But she's on your side too."

"So." Jacey pulls out a stool from underneath the kitchen counter and slides onto it. "I promised you my story. Where do you want to start?" Crossing her legs primly, she smiles, but John isn't remotely fooled by her false bravado.

"Who was the man in the apartment where I found you?"

"It depends on who you ask." The spoon she had been about to put in the drawer is tapped against her knuckles, put down again and picked up. "When I met him he was James. Nice recent graduate who worked in advertising. " She shrugs. "I couldn't believe that he was interested in me. He was really kind he listened. I'm not, I mean I don't.." She puts the spoon down and then picks it up again. "He said he wanted to marry me. Pretty stupid right? But I just.. Things were so bad at home and I thought maybe if I was a married woman and not just some kid then I'd be able to get to see my brothers and sisters. Social Services already warned me off twice for hanging around the twins's school."

"But it didn't work out that way," John says quietly. He keeps his distance and tries not to crowd her. Jacey's talking freely but it's a brittle sort of bravery. It's not new – give hostages a hint of kindness or a friendly voice and they tended to cling to you like a drowning person would to a life-raft. Just because he's trying to help her doesn't mean that his training is any less effective.

"James was the first man I ever, you know, slept with." Her cheeks flush and she keeps her eyes on the spoon in her hand. "Once I was in the city it was two days before he sold me. I was so confused I didn't even say no. At least I don't think that I did. He had friends who called him Jimmy. They had guns and they were always high. It was like I was always waiting for James to tell them to leave me alone but he just laughed and let them.. You know... And where was I supposed to go?"

"Grayson Kent?"

"James.. Jimmy is scared of him, they all are. Traci, she was at the apartment with me when I first got there told me that Grayson likes his girls quiet and I was." She gives a nervous smile. "He's not exactly vanilla when it comes to sex. He likes to mark his women." Pulling down her -shirt she reveals an unmistakable bite mark on her shoulder.

"Do you know where Traci is now"

Jacey shakes her head. "I know that they had other girls in different places. They talked about a Starlight Motel when they thought that I was asleep."

John keeps very calm when there is a knock on the door and doesn't pull his gun although he really feels like shooting someone. He pays for the pizza, tips the delivery boy and smiles at Jacey.

The pumpkin pie turns out fine when the oven timer pings. Not perfect but perfectly acceptable. Probably. He's not actually sure what they are supposed to look like anyway.

Jacey gets through a third of the pizza and two old episodes of the X-Files before falling asleep. John takes a few minutes before throwing a blanket over her, picking her up and putting her on the bed before settling onto a chair by the door. She looks comfortable and at least one of them might as well get some sleep.

John has relaxed into a light doze when his cell-phone wakes him up. He answers it quickly, before it can awaken the girl asleep on the bed. Stretching his cramped limbs, he slides off the chair he'd been sleeping in and pads into the kitchen. It's so early that dawn is just a promise on the horizon and the neon glow of his phone makes him squint.

"Good Morning Harold," he says, stifling a yawn.

"And to you, Mr Reese. I trust your young charge is comfortable." John glances over towards the bed. Jacey is a small lump of blonde hair and blankets, snoring softly.

"Sleeping like a baby. Any info on the Starlight Motel?"

"As a matter of fact there is." Finch sounds tired, John wouldn't be surprised if his employer had been working through the night. "Although there are several establishments with the same moniker in the city only the one in Brownsville seemed to fit the criteria. I've run the financials and came up with something rather interesting. While on paper the establishment is owned by a Mr Clarke, the gentleman himself wasn't the one paying for the substantial renovations that were undergone a year ago."

"And who was?" Reese thinks that he has an idea, but Finch gets uppity when he doesn't get to pull the metaphorical Scooby Doo style mask off the real criminal so he doesn't say it out loud.

"A construction firm by the name of Pittis. Very small; from the state of the tax records I would say that most of the jobs were done cash in hand, but it's been disguised creatively. It's registered in the name of a Mrs Caroline Craig."

"You think that she's in on the prostitution ring?"

"Doubtful, Mr Reese," Harold says wryly. "The woman died in two thousand and six. She did have a son however who goes by her married name."

"That wouldn't be Kent by any chance?" John keeps an eye on Jacey. She hasn't stirred but he knows that she's awake and listening by the irregularity of her breathing.

"Indeed. He was the sole heir and is apparently using his late mother as a smoke-screen for some of his less salubrious activities. It's going to take time to access his financials – he's a very clever man. On paper he's clean, but there are links to shell companies all of whom have re-routed their financial assets to the Cayman Islands. Even with my resources it's going to be next to impossible to implicate him in anything."

"We've got pictures of him soliciting an underaged girl. If Carter or Fusco have grounds for a search warrant then we might be able to shut this down right now. He's got to have records somewhere, " John points out.

"We've got pictures of an underaged girl who happened to have been in Kent's car and in his building. He's quite capable of bribing the chauffeur to say that she was his entertainment for the night and got greedy when she found out who his employer was. Put Miss Brundett on the stand and his defence team will tear her apart."

Reese sighs, but from the beginning of the case he hadn't expected that it would be something that could be tied up nice and neatly by going through the proper law enforcement channels. "I'm going to need the address of the motel, Finch. There's probably other girls stashed there."

"And if there are?"

"I'll think of something. Jacey can't stay here – any ideas?"

"She's booked into the Paramount Hotel under the name Jane Bennet. The room is paid for for two weeks, by then I should have organized something more permanent. A friend by the name Starla Kowalzki will be visiting her at noon to discuss her options and how to legally contact her siblings."

"You have a lot of friends don't you, Harold." John can't help but smile.

The voice at the end of the line is utterly deadpan. "Of course I do, Mr Reese. I am after all charm incarnate. I'm bringing up the blueprints of the Motel and looking into the staff records. Don't move in until I've got something you can use. Keep in contact, Detective Carter may shoot me if you don't turn up for her Thanksgiving meal."

Reese doesn't answer before cancelling the call, but he does make sure that the ear-bud he uses to communicate with is functioning. Finch is right, he's pretty much going in blind and being well armed will only get you so far if you don't have a potential plan B.

"John?" Jacey has gotten off the bed and is watching him uncertainly. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine. " He gives her a smile that she tentatively returns. "Go and clean-up and change while I make breakfast. I've got a new place for you to stay for a while and we should leave soon."

The light goes out of her eyes as quickly as a candle flame being extinguished.

"No. No, Jacey," John crosses the distance between them in a few long strides. "It's a hotel where you will be safe, just for a couple of weeks. Just you there, you keep the key and don't let anyone in, even me if you don't want to."

The war behind her large blue eyes is obvious. To believe or not to believe that was the question. Whatever she sees in his own face is sincere enough to convince her and she gives a small nod.

"Okay."

"Okay." John tucks a tangled strand of blonde hair back from her face. "There's a comb in the bathroom. You might want to use it."

"Says the man who looks like a hedgehog." She gives a little laugh and heads off to shower, closing the door behind her. Going back into the kitchen John puts a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and scowls at his reflection in the glass front of the microwave. Hedgehog? He thinks, patting his ruffled hair flat. He'd better not let Finch or Joss ever hear that or he'd never live it down.

After they've both eaten Jacey packs her new clothing into their plastic bags and John showers, dresses casually, and puts several smoke bombs, a couple of grenades and his Glock in a duffel bag. He thinks that he earns points with her for letting her choose the music in the car – some generic pop crap, and she definitely earns points with him for playing the sweet young niece being looked after by her over-protective uncle when they check into the hotel. Reese promises to check in later, she in turn promises not to do anything stupid and to call him on the burner phone that he gives her if she's in trouble. When he tells her about the woman coming to help her see her family again she hugs him so tightly that his ribs protest.

With Jacey safe in the hotel promising to obey his strict instructions to only open the door to him or Mrs Kowalzki, Reese debates what to do next. He's got to go by the library to collect a few things and taking a look at the blueprints of the Starlight Motel was probably a good idea. Finch had given him the basic outlay of the place verbally, but it was better to actually see for himself the ins and outs of the motel. His life had been saved before by knowing where a strategically placed grenade could be tossed or a fire door located.

It's still early though. Pimps weren't usually known for being early risers – whatever happened at the Starlight Motel probably wouldn't get going until at least mid-day, and Finch might well have better intel by then. Oh who are you kidding? John asks himself. Parking the car a couple of blocks from Carter's apartment he orders a couple of coffees and and an Apple Danish from a little coffee shop and takes them into the park. Settling onto a bench he looks at his watch and waits.


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Jocelyn Carter isn't really one for exercise. She knows a few people who can put the bounce into being a gym bunny without being boring and only nibbling on lettuce leaves, but for her the idea of getting sweaty with a lot of strange people and paying for the privilege does not appeal. She's a cop though however and so neither does the idea of losing a suspect because she wasn't fit enough to chase him down. If she's honest she also acknowledges that she's not so lacking in vanity that going up a dress size isn't a big deal either.

So jogging it is. Half an hour around the park before breakfast when there aren't many people around and there's only the pounding of her feet to keep her company. Although she's always alert to danger it's a chance to let her muscles do the work and clear her head of anything that is bothering her: difficult cases, Taylor's college fund, sexy men in nice suits...

Settling into an easy rhythm, she breathes in the smell of the autumn air and pushes herself a little faster. When she hears her name called she almost crashes into a tree, she's so concentrated on running.

"Good morning Detective Carter." The husky voice is slightly amused and very familiar. For her part Joss is too out of breath to respond with a witty come-back even if she could think of one. Instead she rests her hands upon her knees and does not give Reese the satisfaction of looking at him. Once she's recovered herself somewhat, she glares at the man sat on the bench.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Actually I've brought you breakfast." His cool gray eyes sweep over her appraisingly and Joss straightens her spine. Alright she's sweaty, wearing an over sized T-shirt and her hair is squashed into an unflattering pony-tail but she's still not going to be embarrassed. Even if John is sprawled on the bench dressed in dark jeans, a t-shirt that isn't quite tight enough and a leather jacket looking like the very definition of sin. When he offers her a coffee she gives in sulkily.

"Isn't there something about being beware of Greeks bearing gifts?"

"I'm not Greek," he points out mildly. "Besides the only Trojan Horses around are the ones Finch uses with his computers."

"Smart-ass." When he gives her an Apple Danish, still slightly warm, she pulls it apart and gives him half. "I don't like eating on my own."

John doesn't seem to mind. He eats faster than she does, but messier. There are flakes of pastry on his shirt by the time he's finished and a smudge of apple by the side of his mouth.

"You've missed a bit." Joss gestures towards his cheek. When he swipes ineffectually with his wrist, she sighs and reaches out, cleaning away the apple goo and holding it up to him. "You're way worse than Taylor. Maybe I've still got some bibs you could borrow."

He responds by licking the applesauce off her finger. His tongue is slow, soft and warm and Carter swallows hard. From the intense look in John's eyes that isn't what he'd like to be licking and she presses her knees together firmly so as not to squirm on the cold wooden bench. At least her blush could be mistaken for being flushed from her run, she thinks when he lets her hand go.

"Do you know anything about a man called Grayson Kent?" Reese asks with calm, professional interest.

It takes a moment for her to gather her wits. She should be used to his flirting by now, but seriously, what the hell was that?

"The lawyer?" Carter tries to shut off her libido and go into cop mode. "He's an immoral ass, but then whaddyou expect, he's a lawyer." She shrugs. "Why, what have you got on him?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'll let you know as soon as I have something concrete. Enjoy your breakfast Detective Carter – I look forward to Thanksgiving."

When he gets up and gives her a quick, boyish smile she doesn't follow. There are security cameras at the end of the path and it wouldn't do to be caught on camera with him.

She's not going to make him a Thanksgiving meal, she's going to serve him up as the main course. Dismembered so that he fits in the oven. Taylor would forgive her eventually.

When she gets home she changes the shower setting, washes off and doesn't feel guilty when Taylor yelps at the unexpected coldness of the water a few minutes later.

John buys Finch a Sencha tea on the way the way to the library, half because it's become a habit, and half as a bribe. Harold no doubt knew that he'd met Joss in the park and was probably frowning in disapproval at such a public dalliance. Give him his favourite beverage and at least he couldn't be too snarky, Reese reasons.

Harold destroys that particular theory in less than a minute of him entering the library and making his way to the office.

"If you insist on meeting Detective Carter in public places it would be advantageous to the both of us if you let me know first. You aren't the only person with eyes on her."

"But I'm sure that I'm the prettiest." John bats his eyelashes, smiles and gives Harold his tea. "I was careful. Any new intel on Kent?"

The older man takes a sip of his drink and doesn't look remotely mollified. "Lemmings are pretty too, and if you aren't a little more restrained when it comes to the Detective, probably have a similar life expectancy." Turning back to his computer he brings up a tab onscreen. "The Starlight Motel. Fifty rooms only sixteen of which are currently occupied according to the reception's computer."

"Business is slow," John remarks.

"Indeed, but it's not particularly surprising." Finch pulls up footage from a traffic camera overlooking the place. The motel is a U-shaped two storied building with a small office taking up the equivalent of a double room on the right hand side. On the left the building is covered with scaffolding and tarpaulin, the roof half gone.

"A fire?" Reese guesses.

"Six days ago a blaze got out of control. According to insurance records it was probably started by someone falling asleep with a lit cigarette. Three people died – all of them young women. Only one was identified." Harold taps the keyboard and a picture of a girl of about nineteen flashes on screen. "Traci Camber, a runaway. Reported missing by her father just over a year ago."

"Traci." The young girl's brown eyes look out of the monitor happily; it's obviously an old picture, she's posing with a fat white cat in her arms and looks carefree. John feels indescribably sad. "Jacey knew her, she was the link to the Motel."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Finch falters for only a moment. "The insurance is paying up and there are no outstanding investigations in the fire. Essentially its been brushed under the rug which is more than a little suspicious given that three women are dead."

"Someone is paying off either the cops or the insurance broker?"

"I'd say both, Mr Reese. The fire barely made the papers, the dead girls didn't at all. Someone is keeping this tragedy under wraps."

"Grayson Kent." Reese keeps himself calm, but he can't help but think of pretty Traci whose eyes had been so full of hope, and remember the way Jacey had hugged him as though overwhelmed by any sort of kindness at all. "If he was going to kill his girls then this is a sloppy way to do it though."

"My thoughts exactly." Harold turns his chair with his knee and swivels his chair to meet John's eyes. "But if there were unforeseen circumstances - one of the girls attempting to escape, or merely having too much information, it does make sense. Fire does after all erase evidence, and by contacting the police and the insurance brokers it does allay suspicion towards the Motel so long as you don't look at the paperwork too closely.

"Hiding in plain sight," John agrees. "The same tactic that Kent used when he hired Jacey's services. Three dead girls and Jacey are now missing from his stable – he's going to have to replace them one way or another if he wants to keep his clients provided for. I think that it's time for me to pay a visit to the Starlight Motel."

"I concur." Harold watches as Reese fills a duffle bag with ammo, a few grenades and something big, black and deadly looking. "I'd like the names if possible of the two unidentified girls."

John zips up the bag and nods. There's no quip to be made about Harold being soft hearted and wanting to make sure that they were buried with proper gravestones. None of this is remotely funny.

"I'll keep in touch." Hauling the bag over his shoulder he jogs down the stairs and into the street.


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The Starlight Motel manages to actually be uglier in real life than in the photograph Finch had pulled from his computer. There isn't much traffic around and the neighbourhood has the quiet, dispirited air of a place that had been thriving ten years ago before being mostly abandoned. Most of the nearby businesses are either boarded up or obviously struggling, the tiny front gardens of the small houses parched or neglected altogether.

Strange place for a motel, John muses, but as far off the radar as you could get in New York City. Getting out of the car he tosses his leather jacket onto the back seat of the Range Rover and checks his reflection in the wing mirror. He hadn't bothered shaving that morning so there's stubble forming on his jaw. Messing up his hair a little he tries not to think of Jacey's hedgehog joke. In jeans and a t-shirt he could pass for a nondescript low level criminal looking for somewhere to hide out for a couple of days. The Glock is tucked into a boot and he's got two knives with him as well though – no need to be complacent. The big guns are close enough to retrieve from the Range Rover if he really needs them.

Jogging over the road and towards the office he takes in as much as he can without being obvious. The wing that had been gutted by fire is a sad charred mess covered over in plastic as though to disguise a corpse. Some half hearted scaffolding prevents the tarpaulin from flapping in the faint breeze but its obvious that if any restoration is going to take place then it certainly hasn't started yet.

The other side of the building is in better shape but only in comparison to its counterpart. The plaster, a yellowish green, is peeling off revealing the gray of breezeblocks in some places. The stairs that lead to the iron walkway providing access to the second level have bled rust down the exterior of the first. A desultory half burned palm tree sits in a pot in the middle of the courtyard.

John walks over to the office. From ten paces away he can hear the sound of a television and see a pair of sneakers resting on the tiny front desk. When he knocks on the door before opening it the sneakers don't move, but the man slumped in the chair behind the desk lifts his head and kills the volume on the TV.

"Hey." The man looks to be in his early twenties with a mess of already receding dark hair and sleepy reddened eyes. The smell of marijuana is so strong that Reese briefly wonders if he's going to get a contact high from it. "Lookin' for a room?"

"Got any free? "

The stoner whose name badge proclaims its owner to go by the name of "Anthony" smiles and finally slides his legs off the desk. "Yup. Single or double? We're not exactly overrun with business at the moment if you couldn't tell."

"Single." John watches as the kid squints at the computer screen and taps a couple of keys. "What happened to the place? I heard a couple of women were killed."

"Yeah. Sucks doesn't it? The guy whose job I took quit afterwards must have not been doing his job properly. I mean there's no smoking signs all over the place, but do people listen?"

"Apparently not." John keeps tabs on what is going on outside. Two thick-set men in their thirties are gathered around the stairwell at the far end of the building, obviously engaged in an argument. "So you started working here after the fire?" He keeps his voice friendly.

"This is a temp job, like two weeks tops. I've got a screenplay I'm pimping at ComicCon; Harry Potter meets Freddy Kruger - seriously dude I'm gonna be the new Joss Whedon."

"Good for you." The two men have stopped arguing and are making their way to the parking lot. "Do you know who those guys are?"

"Them?" Anthony tips back his chair and looks out the window. "They're part of the building security. Kinda dicks, I'd keep out of their way if I were you. Of course while making the most of our many luxurious amenities. Room 14 is all yours, how long do you want it for?"

Reese looks at the two men and calculates how long he can render them unconscious and or restrained until Fusco can pick them up. "Two nights ought to do it."

"Okay." Anthony takes the proffered credit card, scans it and gives John a key with a plastic tag on it. "Enjoy your stay."

"Thank-you." John pockets the key, exits the office and makes his way towards the two men outside. They look startled as he jogs towards them hands twitching to their sides in the unmistakable gesture of reaching for fire-arms. "Hey! Hey Guys!" Panting with exaggerated breaths, he rubs a hand through his hair and pretends to look worried. "You're Kent's guys right?"

The larger of the two, a well built Latino eyes him suspiciously. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm a friend of Jimmy's. He sent me to bring back Jacey." John nods back towards the motel.

"You got Jacey? Man, where the fuck is Jimmy? The boss is not pleased."

"Jimmy is staying out the way, y'get me?" The other man, a blue eyed brunet of about forty years old gives him a meaningful look.

"Good for him." The big guy looks at John curiously, sizing him up. "He can't run forever though – word's out that he ran off with the little bitch. Half of Brooklyn is waiting to turn him in. Hell, you give me Jimmy as well as the girl I'll split the reward money." The man's eyes narrow speculatively when he looks at him "Thirty thou each. What d'ya think?"

"What the hell Izzy?" The other man huffs with annoyance and takes several steps towards Reese. "You've known this dick five seconds and you're making deals with him? We don't even know if he's got the slut."

John resists the urge to close his eyes at the spittle that sprays his face before replying calmly, "I'll show you the girl. I'm going to need help finding Jimmy – I can't take him out on my own, he's got friends with him. Once they're both delivered then we split the reward money."

The two men look at each other and nod in wordless agreement before following John towards room number fourteen..

"So long as I can fuck her first," the dark haired man mutters. "I don't do sloppy seconds, just.."

John turns the key in the lock of the door and elbows him swiftly in the throat before kicking backwards. The man topples into the room with a satisfyingly strangled yelp of agony as his knee shatters. The bigger man takes a step backwards, brown eyes wide, his hand scrabbling for his gun, but John grabs his collar, smashes his head against the door frame and tosses on top of his partner. Walking through the door he breathes deeply to contain his rage and kicks the man in the head hard enough to daze him without actually killing him. Removing all of their weapons he ties them up with their belts and a pair of curtains that are quickly and efficiently shredded. After making himself a cup of coffee with the low brand sachets in the tiny kitchen area, Reese sits back and watches the pair from a rickety chair. Writhing on the floor they look like the worms that they are.

John takes a sip of the terrible coffee. "We're going to play a game now, gentlemen," he says quietly. "I like games, don't you?" Taking the Glock from his boot he makes a show of checking the chamber and clicking off the safety before putting it on the table beside him. Both men's eyes widen, the bigger of the two starting to protest until the gun is trained upon him. "Here's the rules. You scream I kill you both. You try to escape I kill you both. I'm going to ask you questions and the one with the best information lives. Lie to me and I will know." Taking another sip of coffee, he taps his ear-piece. "Boss you getting this?"

"Unfortunately yes, and don't call me "Boss" again, especially when you are unleashing your inner sadist." Finch does not sound happy, but then he pays him for doing the necessary things that don't make him happy, John thinks.

"What happened to the girls who died in the fire. Who were they?"

Both men start babbling at the same time until aims the gun at their heads. "One at a time. You first." He points to the smaller of the two. He's pale and sweaty with pain. Being tied up with a broken knee-cap can't be much fun. Given what he's probably done to girls like Jacey, John decides that he doesn't care.

"I wasn't there I swear to God. But I heard about it. One of the Johns's wives turned up HIV positive – Kent was the only supplier of girls to him. He killed himself but you can't sell infected merchandise, not to people like that. Kent covered it up, the wife never knew, but we're talking trust fund elite here. Sooner or later the men talk amongst themselves. The girl had to go."

"Which girl?" John keeps himself very calm.

"Traci." The big guy is still struggling to breathe. "The judge liked her best. Kent kept three of the biggest earners in a room here."

"What were their names," Reese demands.

The man shudders on the floor, his eyes rolling. "Dan.. Danielle and Sue, I think her name was Sue, everyone called her Blondie. And Traci."

"Surnames?"

"Jesus man, whores don't have real names!"

"Nor do hired muscle," John drawls. "Would you like me to leave a note with your remains for whatever family is unfortunate enough to share DNA with you?"

"Casey, he was the guy on reception, he was supposed to take out Traci." the younger man takes up the tale with ill-disguised panic. "Either he got trigger happy or she jumped him and the other girls helped out, but what was supposed to be a message ended up a complete and utter cluster-fuck. Kent got me and Jez to torch the place. They were already dead though, I swear! Casey, he was kept around long enough to talk to the insurance but he went missing a week ago and the only place you're gonna find him is in the Hudson river if you ask me."

"Grayson Kent. What does he have to do with all of this?"

"I've only seen him a couple of times." The Latino know identified as "Jez" looks terrified. "He tries the new merchandise out himself though. Both kinds."

"Both kinds?" John raises an eyebrow.

"Guys like Jimmy, they skim off the school-girl cream. Go down to schools, pretend to be frat boys, bring up the pretty things with no baggage for his stable."

"Like Jacey and Tina."

Izzy swallows hard. "Neither of us were involved with that."

"And the other kind?"

"Eastern European girls. Once a month he gets a delivery. The next one's tomorrow. They get sold on pretty quickly – Grayson is kind of racist."

John decides not to lose any more brain cells pointing out that rape doesn't come with a get out of jail free card depending on the passport or lack of owned by the girl. "Do you know where and when?"

"Red Hook, somewhere. I don't know if Casey emptied the files in the office..." Izzy says fearfully when he gets to his feet. "Look come on man, you don't have to do this."

It only takes a moment for Reese to yank both men back to back and entwine them both so tightly that they can't wriggle free. Jamming both their mouths with a gag of twisted curtain, he searches their pockets, retrieving a hefty roll of fifty dollar notes and two cell phones that he disables before locking the door behind them.

"Did you get all that Finch?" John murmurs as he heads towards the Motel reception desk.

"I'm searching records as we speak," Harold replies. "If you could uncover anything in writing it may help our cause. Incriminating paperwork does have a tendency to become particularly susceptible to both shredders and naked flames in cases like this."

"I'm on it Harold."

Walking purposefully over to the Motel's office, John shoves open the door with his shoulder.

"Hey,dude, what is it the air conditioning busted again?" Anthony looks up from behind the desk with a smile before he catches sight of the gun and his eyes widen. "Woah. Seriously man. There's no money kept here. I mean like maybe a hundred bucks. And my bikes out back. You can have that."

"You're going to be very quiet and show me where all the files are kept, and I'm going to be very good and not hurt you in ways that you have previously only seen in torture porn films." John smiles as sweetly as he can.

"Yeah... Sure.. I mean... I've got a key..." Andrew holds it out towards him as though it were a talisman that could ensure his safety. "It's for the filing cabinets in the office, the ones that I'm not supposed to touch."

"Thank-you Andrew." John takes it and perches on the edge of the desk. "Now you see we have a problem. You've seen a lot more than you should have."

"Oh c'mon man." Andrew looks like he's about to cry. "It's Thanksgiving tomorrow, I'm all my mom has. You can't kill me over a shitty reception job."

"So," John continues as though he hadn't heard him, "In a moment I'm going to knock you unconscious with my gun and take some files from you. You won't remember what I looked like and you won't remember where this came from either." He holds up the stolen roll of bills before giving them to the young man. "Put it in your shoe and call the cops when you come to. Use the cash to promote your story."

Anthony gives the cash a distrustful look but accepts it, tucking it into his worn sneakers. "Am I helping out Batman or the Joker here?"

John gives a sad smile. "The girls that died here were only the tip of the ice-burg. I'm trying to stop it from happening again."

"Batman it is." Anthony sighs and leans back in his chair. "If you could try not to give me brain damage that would be..."

Reese knocks him out with a quick efficient blow to the head. There are two big filing cabinets, one locked, one not. After having a quick rifle through the former, John quickly picks the lock of the latter. It's mostly empty and the files that are within are a complicated mix of documents.

"Finch?" It's a moment before his partner answers.

"There are two cargo ships coming in tomorrow to Red Hook that have links to Grayson Kent. I think that it's time that we brought in our mutual friends."

"Fusco and Carter won't be pleased." John hoists the files under his arm and heads towards his Range Rover, keeping his gun hand free.

"On the contrary, Mr Reese." Harold seems calm as ever. "Foiling an international sex trafficking ring probably gives a warmer feeling to the soul than a pumpkin pie."

John dumps the files on the passenger seat and sighs. "I worked hard on that pumpkin pie."

"I'm sure you did, and that young miss Brundett had nothing to do with it."

John tosses the earbud into the glove compartment and drives on towards the library, turning the classic rock radio station up loud.

She's always just that little bit too far out of reach. Part of him knows that its a dream, but it doesn't stop it from seeming real. The trees rise high as church steeples on either side of a dusty path. He's barefoot, bare chested – he feels like he could run forever. Just a turn on the path infront of him, hidden by the woodland but he can hear her laughter and runs faster. The woman with the black hair and white dress falls back against a tree and holds her arms out. He takes her hand and pulls her down onto a pile of soft leaves, cushioning her fall with his body. She tastes like cinnamon and sweet coffee, her lips demanding, her legs straddling his hips and rocking against him. He can feel the heat of her core against his cock, the weight of one heavy breast in his palm. When she sits up to smile down at him he can barely murmur her name.

Joss..

John wakes up with a start. He's no stranger to disturbing dreams – a hundred times he fought for Jessica, saved her, only to feel her dissolve into smoke and be thrust into the waking world with tears in his eyes. Lately though it was Joss that had supplanted the nightmares. The dreams were still disturbing but in a completely different way. Taking a moment to take a deep breath he ignores the erection tenting his jeans and tries not to remember how wide her eyes were, or the way her pink tongue had peeked out to touch her lower lip when he had licked her finger in the park. She'd probably been one second away from slapping his face at his audacity. Glancing at his watch he checks the time – almost six am. Struggling out of the well cushioned chair that he had finally fallen asleep in, he stretches, wincing as a couple of his joints crack. In shape he might be, but he's not getting any younger he thinks ruefully. Going to the bathroom he relieves himself and splashes some water on his face to wake himself up. The library is eerily silent, only the dust motes dancing in the faint sunbeams and the blinking lights of Finch's computer equipment showing any signs of life. Harold himself had retreated to the small bedroom down the corridor shortly after midnight, John couldn't be bothered to make the trip back to his apartment and chose to crash out in the office instead. After reading the files he had taken from the Starlight Motel if he was honest with himself he didn't really want to go back to his empty place. Staying close to Harold and the machine made him feel a bit like he was doing something even if he was just close enough to respond if a stroke of genius struck Harold or the machine spat out new information.

Rubbing a hand through his tousled hair, he remembers Jacey's comment about him looking like a hedgehog with a pang of sadness. In the folders sat on Finch's desk are photographs of girls around her age. Along with receipts and invoices, names of men who had bought their services or the girls that had been used to blackmail them. Pictures of a girl who looked around fourteen performing oral sex on well known judge. A senator in bed with two teenagers that looked alike enough to be sisters. He'd made himself go through them all despite his distaste. When he'd come to Jacey's picture, bright eyed, a little bewildered but still hopeful, unaware of what the future held, he'd switched to checking the bank accounts. There was enough proof in the files to bring down the whole prostitution ring, bar one problem. Nothing within them implicated Grayson Kent. Finch had managed to unravel the spiders web of accounts and shell companies that the money was laundered through, but all the profits essentially ended up in offshore bank accounts in countries that would laugh at any attempt to put a name to the bank balances.

The only real hope they had was with information on the two container ships that were arriving at Red Hook later that morning. There was no way of knowing which of the two, if either, of them contained smuggled girls, but given the fact that Kent apparently liked to try the merchandise himself first it made sense that he might show up to look over what he'd bought and perhaps select a girl or two for his own personal use. At the very least running surveillance would give him something useful to do.

Yawning, John grabs his leather jacket and the keys to his bike. Riding the motorcycle always clears his head, and the traffic would be quiet this early. He doesn't bother leaving a note for Finch; if he's needed then Harold will ring him. Jogging out into the new dawn he heads towards the underground garage where he keeps the bike.


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Joss yawns and stretches, still half asleep as she opens one bleary eye and looks at the clock. Seven thirty. For a brief moment she panics before relaxing back onto the pillows. She's not late, she doesn't have to go into work. She could probably spend the day in bed watching Frasier re-runs if she wanted to.

But no. This wasn't a typical day off. This was Thanksgiving and she had a hell of a lot to prepare. Sliding out from under the covers Joss catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair is a mess and there's two lines imprinted on her cheek where she'd squashed it against the pillow. When she tries to rub them away they refuse to shift. Not exactly a femme fatale, she thinks. She wonders what John would look like tousled and half asleep, or after... Nope. No. Not going there. John was coming over for a nice meal with her and her son. That was all – it was a thank-you for what he had done for her and Taylor. Yeah right. Keep telling yourself that. She can almost hear her subconscious laughing at her. You practically orgasmed from him licking your finger. With a huff of irritation she stomps off towards the bathroom, putting the kettle on as she passes the kitchen.

Taylor is up by the time she's showered and dressed in her running gear, sat at the kitchen table he's pouring milk over his Wheeto's and listening to the radio.

"Mornin'." Joss tousles his hair and he bats her hand away half heartedly.

"Hey." She doesn't bother trying for more than that – she's taciturn before her coffee in the morning, Taylor's practically mute.

"I'm goin' for a run and then I figured you could help me with the cooking later?" Dumping two teaspoons of instant coffee into her mug, she tops it up and adds milk.

Her son nods and gives her a smile. "John's coming right?"

"That's what he said."

"Cool." He takes a gulp of orange juice. " I could start peeling stuff while you run."

Joss drains the last of her coffee and kisses him on the cheek on the way out. "Who are you and what have you done with my son?" Taylor makes a face and pretends to wipe the kiss off.

"The peeler's in the drawer, it's that oval thing," She yells back as she heads out.

"Ha, Ha." Taylor's voice is cut off as she shuts the door behind her bounds down the stairs.

When she returns Taylor has managed to make a complete mess of the kitchen and peel three carrots. Joss surveys the wreckage and decides not to protest, instead joining in and hopefully providing a few tips that might mean that he'd be able to cook a decent meal for himself before he started drawing his pension.

When the cellphone rings her first thought is that it's John ringing to cancel and feels her heart plummet, especially when Taylor gives her a worried look. It's not his low voice at the other end though when she answers. Harold Finch has a clipped enunciation that never sounds particularly friendly, but the fear in his voice makes him sound even sharper.

"Detective Carter? Mr Reese needs your help."


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After a quick shower at his place and an even quicker breakfast, John changes into an old pair of jeans, an even older sweater and tucks a woollen cap into the pocket of his waxed jacket along with his Glock, ammo a couple of smoke grenades and a pair of lightweight but powerful binoculars. The container terminal where Kent's ship might or might not be coming in was a working port with dozens of transient staff from the boats coming and going; so long as he kept his head down and didn't call attention to himself he should be able to mingle amongst them fairly easily. After texting Harold he puts his ear-piece in.

"Finch."

There's a faint crackle of static before Harold's voice comes through.

"Good morning Mr Reese, up bright and early I see."

"One of us has to be an early bird," Reese replies with a smile.

"Very droll." Harold does not sound amused. "I take it you are on your way to Red Hook. The "Juno" is set to dock at ten, the "Regent" at eleven, although from what I've gathered from their locations the "Juno" is running a little late. Both of them are due to dock at the northern terminal. I would advise you not to engage until Kent is sighted."

"I'm on it Finch," John sighs. "I'll call for back-up if I need it."

"Very wise, Mr Reese," Harold says approvingly. "Keep in contact, and good luck."

"Thanks." Grabbing his keys and his helmet he locks up and swings a leg over the saddle of the bike. A glance at his watch puts the time at nine-fifteen. If he was lucky he could crack the case, deliver Grayson Kent to Fusco and be back in time to clean up before going over to Carter's place. Maybe she'd like the lawyer trussed up as gift rather than the pumpkin pie... The thought makes him smile.

It doesn't take long to get to the docks. Unwilling to park too close, he stashes the bike in the lot of a big, busy drugstore and walks the few hundred meters to the dock. It's a big place. Several huge cranes tower against the skyline, the sound of metal against metal as cargo crates are swung down from ships to be deposited in massive warehouses making it hard to think. When he cuts a hole in the chain-link fence and slides through, he puts on the woollen cap in his pocket, pulling it down over his nose. Passing through a group of workmen he recognises their language and says a brief "hello" in Polish. They nod vaguely and don't give him a second glance. The northern terminal is a lot less populated than the southern one, although it is far from quiet. The clanging of steel as a crane unloads its cargo much further away reminds John uneasily of gunfire. A ship has obviously departed, along with its crew, and the big empty storage container that is waiting to be re-filled provides excellent cover. Tucking himself behind a pile of wooden pallets propped against the wall, Reese gets out his binoculars and settles down to wait.

His knees are cramping and his arms are stiff by the time he catches sight of his quarry, but such petty trifles are swiftly forgotten. As "The Juno", a huge imposing metal monstrosity is towed into the bay, a car rolls up to the dock. The Bentley is instantly recognisable, as is the man who exits it. Grayson Kent's silver blond hair ruffles in the breeze, but he is otherwise immaculate. A few moments later a big black minivan pulls up behind him and three men get out. They are heavy-set, dressed casually, but from the bulges in their clothing John can see at a glance that they are all armed. He snaps a couple of pictures and sends them on to Finch.

Once the ship has dropped anchor and the gangway has been secured, John watches as two middleaged men descend and walk over to Kent. Both of them seem to be deferring to the lawyer, the older of the two accepting a duffel bag after opening it briefly to check the contents. Presumably the transportation fee for the nine girls who were herded down the ramp a few minutes later by three burly but indifferent looking men. John snaps another couple of pictures and sends them on, withdrawing his Glock and unzipping his pocket. Waiting until the girls had been handed over to Kent and his men, he makes sure that the boat crew have headed back on board before making his move. The girls aged between perhaps thirteen and eighteen stay huddled together, a couple of the older ones a little defiant but obviously terrified when Kent looks them over, touching their breasts and making them open their mouths so that he could check their teeth. Once they have been herded into the back of the minivan, John makes his move. Tossing a flash bang towards the car he ducks back and covers his ears, bounding to his feet and raising his gun. Kent is cowering on the floor, obviously stunned, but his chauffeur recovers quickly and pulls a pistol from a shoulder holster, letting off a couple of shots. John takes him down quickly and turns his attention to the three men by the mini van. Dropping one with a shot to the knee, and slamming the still open door into the smallest's face as he runs around the vehicle, knocking him out cold, the larger of the three is on John before he has time to dodge. The impact of his body slams him against the van, a big hand squeezing his wrist until he has to let go of the gun. Bucking backwards when a meaty arm clamps around his neck, Reese struggles to breathe, his feet scrambling for purchase. Finally bracing a boot on the wing mirror he gets enough purchase to throw them both backwards, rolling sideways and out of the thug's grip. Grabbing a handful of hair he slams the man's head down and finishes him off with an uppercut. He can hear a couple of the young women whimpering but there isn't time to worry about that. Getting up John retrieves his gun and strides over to Grayson Kent who is struggling to his knees, his eyes wide, his pristine suit stained with oil.

"Kent.." His words are cut off when something slams into his thigh, sending him crashing to the ground. Slightly winded, Reese glances down at the steadily darkening stain on his jeans. I didn't hear a gunshot so that must mean a sniper rifle...The thought has barely flashed through his mind before another bullet whizzes past so close that the concrete chips thrown up cut his cheek. Rolling sideways he returns fire in the general direction the gunfire was coming from before half running, half limping back towards the warehouse. Collapsing inside, dizzy with pain and adrenaline, he chances a quick look back towards the boat. The two men that had met Grayson Kent are on deck, each with sleek, top of the range rifles. Obviously women weren't the only thing being smuggled on The Juno, John realizes, his heart sinking. There's only one entrance to this storage hold and no-where to run.

"Finch?" The utter silence at his query speaks volumes. Touching his ear, he realizes that the earpiece had been knocked out in the fight. Thankfully his cellphone is intact when he pulls it out of his pocket.

Harold answers it after only one ring, obviously worried. John interrupts him before he can say anything.

"Harold, I've got a slight situation here."

Joss had managed to keep calm and smile when she told Taylor to keep an eye on the roasting turkey and what time to put the potatoes and vegetables on. "They need me down at the precinct for an hour or so- nothing to worry about," she'd told him. Taylor had given her a yeah right, look, but had thankfully not asked questions. Pretending to get something from her bedroom, she quickly puts her kevlar vest on under a sweatshirt and swaps her shorts for jeans. Grabbing her gun, her badge and her keys, Joss left the apartment so quickly that she didn't hear whatever it was that her son called after her.

Fusco calls when she's slamming her car door and wrestling with the seatbelt.

"Wonderboy is in trouble again," is his not particularly friendly greeting. "I guess you got the call too."
"Yeah." Carter turns the key in the ignition and heads her car out into the traffic. "Trouble at Red Hook terminal. How do you want to play this?"

"Finch says there's at least two men with automatic weapons on one of the ships, I'm going to go in from the north, call for back-up and keep them occupied. You get our guy out and away. We can go after Kent and the girls afterwards."

"Got it. I'll go in from the south exit. Keep in touch."

It doesn't take long for Joss to get to the bay. She's a careful driver, but in her wilder teenage years she'd been a little more devil-may-care, and those instincts stood her in good stead as she wove through the traffic, a hair shy of actually breaking the law. Pulling into the check-point she shows her badge to an indifferent guard and makes herself stay below twenty as she drives up to the northern terminal. No-one seems to take much notice of her – at the southern end it's a hive of activity with ships loading and unloading, slowing her down so much that she's tempted just to drive straight through them, but there's almost a quarter of a mile of abandoned dock that is obviously undergoing renovation before she reaches the northern site. Making herself hang back slightly, she calls Fusco.

"Lionel? What's goin' on with you?"

He sounds worried when he answers. "SWAT's on its way, ETA ten minutes. I'm in position; two shooters on the front of the boat, the minivan with the girls is gone but I got the plate. Kent's still here with one of his goons, I don't have a clear shot."

Shit. John might not have ten minutes... As though he'd read her mind, Fusco warns, "Don't do anything stupid Carter."

Yeah, well, bit late for that now. Gunning the engine she puts the pedal down and swerves around the corner, swinging the rear of her car into the back of the Bentley parked by the dock. The impact sends the burly man standing by the front bumper flying several feet onto the concrete to lie unmoving and the unmistakable Grayson Kent leaping for cover. Bones jarred by the impact, Joss unbuckles her seatbelt quickly and raises both her badge and gun.

"NYPD," she practically screams. She looks around quickly for John, after a couple of seconds seeing him emerge slightly from the shadows of a storage unit. A bullet slams into the hood of her car and she flinches backwards ready to return fire. Someone else does it for her – a volley of shots aimed towards the big boat docked by the Bentley cover her as she runs towards Reese. Thank-you Fusco, she thinks. The blow to her back knocks the breath out of her and she slams face first onto the concrete, lungs screaming and her right side on fire. Somewhere she can hear a howl as though an animal has been wounded, but before she can make any sense of it she's dragged to her knees by her hair and her gun has been snatched from her limp fingers. Struggling to breathe, Joss tries to get her legs under her and twist free.

"Pack it in bitch." Grayson Kent's voice has none of its customary smoothness as he pockets her gun and presses his own pistol against her forehead. He tightens his hand in her hair and Carter tries to ignore the pain and keep calm. John has made his way halfway between them and the warehouse, his face is pale, his eyes wild with rage. He's limping heavily which means that he's been hit at least once. If he had a gun, and since when didn't he? It had been discarded which meant that they were in a world of trouble.

"Take off your jacket." Kent's words are terse, "and your sweater, then empty your pockets. Try anything and I'll blow her head off."

John doesn't hesitate. The heavy coat falls to the ground with a "thunk" that suggests that he'd stashed some of his weapons there. A couple of knives fall out of his pockets as well as his cellphone when he empties them. Joss wants to scream at him to take a shot, throw a knife, do something, but he doesn't meet her eyes. He doesn't want to risk her life by making a move. Were their positions reversed she probably wouldn't take the chance either.

The heavy set man that had been sent flying when Joss rammed the Bentley appears by Grayson Kent's side, bleeding from a gash by his eye and a little unsteady. His eyes however are clear and filled with a murderous rage.

"Burkel, I want them both alive. I want to know where they got their information from." The big man grunts, takes two steps towards John before kicking out his injured leg and bringing the butt of his gun down on his head. Reese collapses without a murmur which is more than can be said for Joss. She cries out despite herself, receiving a smack to the temple from Kent's gun barrel that leaves her dizzy. Her cellphone is taken and smashed, her body undergoing a quick search that she's too disorientated to protest. With blurry vision she watches as the big henchman tosses Reese's unconscious body over his shoulder and dumps it into the trunk of the Bentley, checking quickly for any other weapons in his boots. She's dragged along afterwards and thrown on top of John, the hood slamming down and plunging them both into darkness. When the engine starts and the Bentley peels away at what seems like sixty miles an hour, Joss is rammed against the side of the trunk, whimpering as the impact bruises her already tender back.

Come on girl. Calm down. Think. Carter takes as deep a breath as she can given the constraints of the kevlar and the awkward position she's in. The Bentley's trunk is at least roomy, giving her enough space to slide her legs off of John's hip where they had landed and letting her free her arms. First things first. Carefully she pats the big warm shape pressed against her, twisting so that she is spooned against his back.

"John?" She asks quietly. "John, can you hear me?" No response, but she can feel the rise and fall of his ribs under her hand when she reaches over to check his pulse. It's fairly steady, but she knows he's hit, knows he's bleeding. Wriggling lower she feels the stickiness of blood under her fingers when she reaches his thigh and the torn denim that signalled an entry wound. Pressing her hand against it firmly she doesn't let him flinch away when he groans, instead tucking herself closer and resting her head on his ribcage. He's solid and slightly sweaty, his breathing hitching when she increases the pressure. Joss whispers quiet nonsense words to him as much to calm herself as him.

Fusco. The thought of her partner makes her chest tight. It had definitely been him covering her from the snipers on the boat, but then everything had fallen silent. Was he alright? Had he simply not dared take a shot while Grayson Kent had a gun to her head or had he been hit? The knowledge that a SWAT team would be on site any moment now wasn't much of a comfort. They had been too late to help her and Reese; if Lionel was lying out there with a bullet in his head then there wouldn't be much that they could do for him either.

Joss isn't sure how long they were driving for, she's not entirely sure that she was wholly conscious for the entire journey either, but by the time they stopped both her sleeve and leg are sticky with blood. When the hood is opened she blinks blindly at the light before being unceremoniously pulled out of the trunk and dumped on the ground, John deposited even less elegantly beside her. Blearily Carter takes in her surroundings. They're by a jetty giving a beautiful view of of the river, squinting she makes out the shape of a bridge and recognizes it with a prickle of fear. She'd taken been over the Verrazano-Narrows bridge quite a few times, the curve of it is unmistakable, but while it was good to know where they were it also meant that they were a long way from Red Hook. Behind them a big three storied house rose up, aggressively modern, all angles and glass. The garden in contrast is lush, almost tropical. If there were houses nearby then she couldn't see them. Grayson Kent liked his privacy, Joss thought with a prickling of fear. Good for him, bad for her and Reese.

"John?" She reaches out for him. Collapsed on the paved driveway all long limbs gracelessly sprawled, his skin waxy pale, Joss feels her heart slam against her rib cage. "John!" Scrambling towards him, she's picked up by the scruff of her sweater as though she were no more than a misbehaving puppy by Kent's hired muscle.

"I could just dump them both in the river." The man holding her so tightly that any of her evasive tactics are rendered useless sounds almost hopeful. "That one's practically dead anyway." He nods towards John and Carter resists the urge to sink her teeth into his wrist. But even if she did get free there was no chance of getting away and she wouldn't, couldn't, leave John.

"No, Burkel." Grayson Kent's voice was back to its calm authority. "Put them in The Nero and stay near the bridge until I call you back. I don't want any mess here – I've got some cleaning up to do but I want to talk to them. Either I've got an informer on the payroll or something else is going on."

"Maybe the cops figured something out," Burkel suggests.

Kent gives Joss an appraising look that she attempts to return defiantly. "She's a cop, he isn't. If this was a sanctioned take down we'd have had police everywhere. Whoever they are they are this isn't a NYPD operation. Cuff them in the main cabin and pretend to be a tourist. I'll be in contact." Checking his pistol he keeps it trained on John's prone form. "You know where the cuffs are. Get her locked down and come back for him."

Joss lets herself be marched down the jetty and onto the sleek white powerboat moored there, trying not to think of the gun jammed into her side. Black lettering on the prow proclaims the vessel to be "The Nero" that Grayson Kent had spoken of. Figures, Joss thinks as she's shoved up the steps and into one of the cabins, her arm wrenched up when Burkel grabs a set of handcuffs out of a drawer and secures her none too gently to a metal pole. The Roman Emperor for which it had been named was famed for being powerful and a psycho too. She's barely had time get her bearings before Burkel carries John through and tosses him beside her with a grunt of effort. With another pair of cuffs he secures the unconscious man to both Joss and the metal pole before casting off and moving towards the controls. The lurch of the boat is brief as it starts moving before settling into a smooth, steady rhythm away from shore.

"John?" Joss turns her attention to the man slumped beside her. He's so pale that she can see the blue veins tracing the translucent skin of his eyelids above the thick dark lashes. His chest is still rising and falling she thinks, but given that he's wearing dark jeans it's hard to tell how much blood he's lost. She herself is sticky with it, but at least it couldn't have hit an artery. Carter tries to remember how to do CPR, wonders if she can do it with one hand and tries not to panic.

"Please, please. Not like this. Please wake up."The whisper against his ear, her cheek pressed against his damp hair is more of a prayer than a request. When he turns his head and brushes his lips against hers so briefly that it might have been her imagination, Carter has to bite her tongue not to giggle in relief like a total idiot. She's fairly sure that she's grinning though when those silver blue eyes open and meet her gaze.

"When I thought about going on a boat ride with you it wasn't quite like this," he murmurs.

She gives a quiet half snort of irritation. "Yeah well I never had you down as a romantic."

"I'm going to get us out of this ok?" He looks at her as though willing her to believe it. He doesn't have to try that hard.

"How?"

"In a minute I'm going to have a seizure and you're going to yell your head off about me being the only one who knew about Grayson Kent's prostitution ring. I need you to get him close," he mutters.

"John.." Carter looks at his injured leg.

"Trust me." He gives her a smile. A proper smile with a hint of his usual smirk. Reluctantly she nods in acquiescence. It doesn't take much acting on her part to scream bloody murder when Reese's head drops back and his body starts convulsing.

"For fucks sake save him!" She yells. The boat shudders to a halt, the big man driving it looking intensely irritated as he jumps down the two stairs that separate the cabin from the deck.

"What's going on?" Drawing his gun, his eyes bright with anger he approaches, pausing for half a second when he sees Reese writhing on the floor.

"Fuck," he mutters. Keeping his gun trained on Carter he drops to his knees and reaches out to the stricken man. John acts quickly. Kicking his legs up he grabs the man in a headlock, squeezing his thighs around the man's neck. Burkel shoots wildly but his aim is off, missing Carter who tucks herself as close to the floor as she can. The crunch of the man's neck breaking is sickening and the gun drops to the floor, skittering across the floor and under a counter-top. Panting, John untangles himself from the dead man's body, his body shaking with pain.

Carter struggles upright and swallows hard so as not to vomit. She gets herself together quickly – she's seen far worse in combat. What matters now is getting them both out of the boat. As though it heard her there is a cracking sound and the boat slides sideways slightly. Brilliant, the hull is breached. Hooking her leg around the corpse, Joss manages to drag it towards her slightly. John has the same idea. It's a stretch but with a bit of twisting they pull the body up enough to gain access to its pockets.

Empty.

With unspoken mutual agreement they let the body flop backwards and kick it away.

"The keys are on the deck, aren't they." It's a statement not a question and John doesn't bother to answer.

Shoving the pole with all her might, Joss gains nothing but a bruised shoulder. The rivets are underneath the carpet so even trying to unscrew them is impossible.

"John?" She tries to keep her voice commanding and not utterly terrified. Whatever energy he had expended killing their captor was probably the last he had in his tank. Even lifting his head seemed to take more effort than he had. "Come on, stay with me."

"Not going anywhere." He gives a sleepy smile. "Supposed to be with you at Thanksgiving right?"

Yeah, but not like this.

"This is the worst Thanksgiving that I've ever had." The boat tilts a little more sideways but Joss keeps talking. It seems to keep him awake, grabbing his thigh to both stop the bleeding, and in the hopes that the pain might stop him lapsing into unconsciousness she tells him the story of her grandma and the turkey that she threw out of the window. When she orders him not to pass out he calls her bossy.

"Give me your bra."

For several long seconds Joss can think of absolutely no response. She'd thought that John had been drifting away, but he's obviously trying to stay awake. When he jams his thumb into the wound in his leg he swears and the tendons in his neck stand out like cables as he grits his teeth, but his eyes are sharper when he looks at her.

"Your bra. Can you get it off?"

Usually she'd ask why, but since this is hardly the time for being embarrassed and nothing about the situation is erotic, Joss does her best to comply. Getting a bra off one handed is difficult but it's made almost impossible by the Kevlar vest. Eventually she manages to wriggle her hand down and unclasp it, but getting it off altogether simply isn't going to happen. Managing to wriggle one strap down and off one arm so that she can pull it up through the neckline of her sweatshirt is as good as its going to get.

"You want the under-wire right." The thought occurs her as she manages to tug most of the lingerie out of her clothing. It's a pretty blue lace bra, one of her favourites. At any other time she'd make a comment about John's expression when he sees it, because by the way his pupils dilate it's not only the very real possibility of drowning that has gotten his blood up. Instead he grabs one of the lacy cups, rips it with his teeth and slides out the slender piece of metal. It takes Joss longer to shed the Kevlar and the ruined bra than it does for him to free them of the handcuffs. Shoving her arm back through her sweatshirt, Joss has to hang on to the pole she'd been shackled to when the boat groans as though in pain and tips even further sideways.

"Come on." John has found something bright yellow and oblong in a cupboard, when he holds his hand out she takes it and they both scramble up onto the deck that is now tilting at a thirty degree angle. Obviously familiar with the mechanism, with a few deft moves the plastic packet promptly inflates into a small yellow lifeboat that Reese holds onto, nodding for her to get in. Joss slips and slides, more tumbling into the inflatable than edging into it as she'd seen on a dozen "in case of emergency" videos when she occasionally took the ferry. John gets in beside her rather more gracefully even with a bullet it his leg, and within moments they are free, bobbing on the water as The Nero sinks slowly beside them.

"That was fun." Slightly giddy with relief Joss rests her head against the bouncy plastic for a moment. "I thought we were going to re-enact the sinking of The Titanic there for a moment."

"If this was the James Cameron version then you'd be dumping me off the side right about now." John sounds amused but his voice is unusually quiet. Pushing herself up carefully so as not to capsize the dinghy, Joss tugs her sweatshirt over her head and ties it around his leg. The bleeding has slowed but he can't afford to lose any more blood. When he winces she apologises.

When she catches him staring at her breasts, ill concealed under damp white cotton he swallows hard and looks away.

It might have been an awkward moment had the little boat not swayed wildly as a small fishing boat drew up beside them. Leaning over the rail Fusco's brown eyes are narrowed with irritation, his complexion slightly green with sea-sickness.

"Trust you two to sit around all cosy while I do all the work."

"Fusco? Seriously I'm grateful, but I could do without the " I could have told you so."" Carter is tired, her hair is still damp as are her clothes. She's uncomfortable, pissed off and worried about the man who is currently being treated by a sweet natured veterinarian who didn't bat an eye-lash when they'd practically dumped a bleeding John onto "Waggy Tails'"doorstop.

It's probably a good veterinarian practice – it seems clean and the chairs in the waiting room are comfortable. The sign on the door had said "closed" until it let them in. Several pretty kittens and puppies watch her from posters stuck on the walls reminding her of the importance of worming and microchipping. John probably doesn't have worms, Joss thinks and he doesn't need a microchip for Harold to locate him. Finch is better than any hand held device when it comes to locating what is lost, whether the person wants to be found or not. He probably pays better than most people coming into the surgery to get their pet neutered too.

Glancing at the man sat beside her, Joss takes a look at what he is reading before wriggling on the plastic chair to let the circulation in her legs start flowing again and letting her head fall back against the wall. Her back hurts from the impact of the bullet against her vest and she feels like arguing because being alive is really great and the waning adrenaline in her system is making her shaky. Thank goodness that Fusco had kept up interference with the precinct and let her use his phone to tell Taylor that she was alright.

"You know that Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake broke up like ten years ago right?"

"It's nostalgic." Lionel is defensive as he puts the ancient copy of "The National Enquirer" back on the little table between them. "Remember when you could turn the radio on and people could actually sing? Not just get famous for being auto-tuned on The X-Factor?"

Joss smiles. "My mom raised me on Nina Simone and Led Zepplin. You're preaching to the choir. Britney Spears though, seriously?"

"It wasn't the "Hit Me Baby One More Time," video if that's whay you're thinking," Fusco retorts. "I liked the ballads. "Lucky," and "Everytime." Realising that he's just given her prime blackmail fodder, Lionel gives her the side-eye. "Also Metallica and Iron Maiden."

"Relax." Carter tries not to grin. "You pulled me and Reese out the river and got into a shoot-out to cover us. For that you can listen to Justin Beiber on repeat and I won't say a word."

"Yeah well you can thank glasses guy for the cruise. SWAT team took care of the snipers on the ship, so as usual they'll get all the glory. I get rewarded with sea-sickness and a guy with a boat that smells of fish so that I can rescue your sorry asses."

"And my undying gratitude. Any news on the girls that were imported?"

Fusco shakes his head and looks at the phone in his hand even though he would have heard it ring if he'd been contacted. "The plates of the minivan went out as soon as I had them. They won't get far. Your car's been impounded, I've ordered you a cab; should be here any minute. I'd give you guys a ride but all three of us together seems like pushing our luck if I get pulled over. Here," he gives Carter her wallet back. Opening it, she takes a deep breath of relief when her badge catches the light. "Your gun's in my car, our mutual friend towed away your car and conveniently erased CCTV footage. There's nothing to tie you to any of this."

"Thanks." Joss pockets the wallet. "What about you?"

"I'm cop in the right place, right time, responding to gunfire while birdwatching."

"Birdwatching?"

The scrape of a door opening halts the conversation and the pair watch as the pretty middle aged vet holds the door to the surgery open so that Reese can hobble through. His hair is still damp, his face pale. Wearing someone's old sweatpants that are too big, a green scrub shirt that's too small and leaning on an impressively carved walking stick he looks utterly ridiculous.

Carter bites her lip so as not to giggle with amusement and relief, Lionel has no such restraint.

"Nice look, man."

John gives him a tired glare before making his way towards the seating area and sitting down stiffly.

"Any news on Kent or the girls that were taken?" He asks immediately.

Joss shakes her head. He looks like absolute crap but she's still pretty sure that given a target to go after he'd still try and go after them all guns blazing.

"Kent's in the wind, the LAPD are looking for the girls. We're waiting for further intel."

"Ma'am?" The veterinarian holds out a paper bag with a couple of boxes in it. "You might want to take these since I don't anticipate the patient doing so and he needs them. Dosage is on the boxes – grind them up in his food or coffee if he refuses, and I want to see him in a week to check for infection. Earlier if he has any problems. Book him in under the name "Stubborn"."

Ignoring the thoroughly affronted man beside her, Joss takes the bag and peeks inside at the packets of pills. "Should I buy him a collar?" She can't resist asking.

The woman obviously gets the joke and gives her a wink. "What you get up to in your free time is up to you but keep it gentle for at least a couple of weeks, and don't let him off the leash. No running around," she gives John a stern look. "You were lucky. No bone fragmentation or major vascular damage but it's going to take time and physio for your muscles to get back to full strength. You can keep the walking stick so long as you promise to use it."

"I promise." Joss doesn't need to look at John to know how utterly insincere his voice is when he gives assurance that he'll do so. The smile is genuine though when he thanks her for her care.

"Cabs here," Fusco says glancing out the window. "Since your cell's gone then call me when you get home ok?"

"Yeah." Joss quickly squeezes her partner's forearm. "You're one in a million. I owe you."

"I won't forget this." John's words are quiet as he shuffles along out the door next to Carter, but she sees the hint of a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. Lionel might be a hard-bitten cop, a dogged if not always squeaky-clean guy, but something within him was evolving and that needed to be acknowledged and proper gratitude given.

"You know Taylor's keeping dinner warm, you're welcome to join us," Carter suggests.

"Nah. But thanks anyway." Lionel's brown eyes crinkle and he nods towards the door. "I've got a date with my kid. Leftovers on pizza later and a Simpsons marathon – it's traditional."

"Each to their own," Reese murmurs, following Joss outside.


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It's not a surprise to Carter that John wants to get cleaned up and changed. It is however somewhat of a shock that he trusts her to share the location of where he actually lives.

He'd given the cab driver directions without asking her. Of course Joss had paid since he didn't have any money, or really anything at all other than borrowed clothing. The building he'd asked them to stop at wasn't overly ostentatious but clearly expensive. They'd gone up in the elevator, her fidgeting because he was swaying slightly and obviously trying to balance on his undamaged leg without her noticing. Taking his arm would be acknowledging his temporary weakness which she knows that he would hate, but watching him struggle is painful to her too. Eventually it stops, the sleek steel doors opening onto a bright and airy corridor. Ignoring all the doors John limps down the carpeted tunnel before stopping at the very end, just before the fire-doors. With a grunt he reaches up towards one of the air vents and fishes out a tiny filament tied just inside it. When he replaces the grate a bronze key is in his palm.

"This way." He brushes past her determined, not looking at her. When he unlocks the door at the other end of the corridor he seems almost shy when he lets her in the apartment.

It's beautiful, is her first thought. It could belong to anyone, is her second. When Reese nods to say without words "Take a look" when her eyes widen at the view from the windows, she pads over and stares out at the city. Framed in glass she feels tiny.

"This place is yours?"It's a bit of a redundant question. Why else would he have brought her there so that he could change his clothes?

"For now." Two words can say a lot more than the speaker intends. Joss sweeps her eyes around the huge bedroom, the state of the art kitchen. She has no doubt that the stairs curving above to the higher floor lead to rooms equally impressive. It's obvious that Finch had a hand in purchasing this. Thinking of her own little space with its photos stuck on the freezer, DVD's and video games trying to spill onto the floor and every inch stamped with memories be they faint coffee stains on the carpet or novelty mugs in the cupboards, Carter wishes that she were home. Wishes that she could take John home. Despite the decent heating this place is cold.

"Finch?" John's found what looks like a burner phone in a cupboard. "Any news?"

Joss waits for him to finish the call and looks at the tiny people scurrying far below. If there was a God is that what he or she would see?

"The girls from "The Juno" have been recovered safely. One of Kent's men was killed but the other looks like he'll testify against him." John sounds a little calmer. Given the news she lets out a breath that she hadn't known she'd been holding to.

"Those girls won't be safe without amnesty." She points out.

"Taken care of," Reese says, rubbing a hand through his hair. "They're already in a safe house and their interests are being well looked after."

"And Kent?"

"Harold doesn't know, but it's only a matter of time before he's caught. He's suddenly gone up to number one on the most wanted list. Whoever brings him in is going to be a hero." Pulling the ill-fitting scrub shirt over his head, he drops it on the floor. "I'm just going to clean up."

"Okay." She watches as he puts the walking stick on the kitchen counter and limps off down the hall for about twenty seconds before any awkwardness or propriety is pushed away. John's holding on to the wall and opening the bathroom door with the other hand before she gets to him.

"This is stupid. Let me help you." Wrapping an arm around his waist Carter eases him down on the wooden bench that is bolted beside the big marble tub when they get inside. The green tiles cast a slightly sickly glow to both of them when she catches their reflection in the big mirror above the basin. For a moment she meets his eyes, mirror images a little confused. Her hand is still on his shoulder, his knee touching hers. Filling up the basin with warm water, Joss wets the washcloth folded on the side.

He doesn't move or speak when she runs the warm water over the sharp planes of his cheekbones, obligingly closing his eyes when needed. He lowers his head when she wipes the cloth over the tense ridges of his shoulders, the hollows beneath his collar bones. The water runs down the taught planes of his chest, but he stays silent although his breath hitches when she cups his cheek.

He could kill her in an instant if he wanted to, she thinks. But then he'd most likely kill himself before he'd harm her.

Brushing dirt from old scars Joss bites her lip so as not to embarrass them both by crying. She's seen him fight like a demon, ignore injuries that would leave most people screaming. Tenderness is his undoing. He doesn't seem to know how to cope with it. Leaning into her touch like a tame tiger.

It's halfway when she's wiping down his left arm and taking his hand in hers that Joss realises that she's humming nonsense words. Kissing the top of his head, she breathes in the smell of him and lets him wrap his arms around her waist.

She doesn't dare take the sweatpants off. He's aroused and quite frankly she'd let him have her any way that he wanted at the moment.

Bad idea. He'd blame himself for forcing himself on her or taking advantage of her compassion. If she was going to have him then it couldn't be excused as a pity fuck. When she had him, and now it was a case of "when" rather than "if" they'd meet each other as equals.

"I'm going to get you something to wear." her voice doesn't quite sound like her own. Untangling herself she pads into the hall and into the main room. It takes a few minutes to find a closet with jeans, a few polo necks and longer still to find the under-wear drawer. Black socks and briefs – simple and easy compared to her jumble of mutli-coloured lace, cotton and satin. Shoving them around the door to the bathroom, Joss heads back to the kitchen. She finds a glass in the cupboard and slakes her thirst, but it's what's on the sideboard that catches her attention.

A pumpkin pie. Slightly burnt on one side, obviously home-made. Very obviously for her and Taylor.

It doesn't take long for John to come out of the bathroom. Fully dressed and composed , he looks at the pastry Carter is studying. The flush colouring his cheeks isn't entirely due to the shower's heat.

"Is this for me?" She puts it down and can't stop smiling. "If it isn't can I have it?"

"It's for Taylor." Reese tugs at the collar of his polo-neck. "Kids like pumpkin pie right?"

"You call Taylor "Kid" and he's likely to dump it over your head." Joss pokes at the crust with a finger.

"Hey." limping over, his stick clicking on the kitchen tiles, he pulls the pie away from her. "We spent a long time making that. You can have it later."

"Whose "we"" Carter asks curiously. "Not Finch?"

"A number. Harold doesn't cook."

"The number got a name?"
"Jacey."

"Jacey..." Joss tries out the name. "Does Jacey come here often?" She tries to keep the quick stab of jealousy out of her voice, but from the quick flash of interest in John's eyes he caught it.

"She needed a place to stay last night, here seemed safest."

Despite her attempt at nonchalance, Joss's eyes flick over to the big bed in the living area.

The only bed.

Her head is turned by John's warm strong fingers on her cheek, pushing her face up gently to meet his gaze. The look in his eyes is so intense that she has to swallow hard.

"Jacey's a traumatised kid. I took the sofa. When I share that bed it'll be with you, when we're both ready." His voice is soft, low and filled with promise. Quite a lot of Carter's body would argue that she's ready right now actually, but she forces herself to ignore the throb between her thighs and force the blood that is flushing her cheeks back into her brain.

"Taylor's waiting for us," she manages to reply, inwardly wincing at the hitch in her voice. "I've ordered a taxi."

"We'd best get going then." Joss watches as he grabs his coat, a disposable cell, a roll of bills from the cutlery drawer and a pretty silver Barretta from inside the fridge. She knows that there's no point in arguing with him about the necessity of the gun – even in what he knows is a safe haven its a fair bet that he'd feel naked without a weapon of some sort. He lets her take the pie after putting it in a plastic bag first and even lets her grab his arm when the stick slips when they go down the steps at the front of the building. She doesn't let go until the cab arrives and he doesn't ask her to.


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Despite what her mother might have told her and teachers who dismissed her as trash and lazy when she was falling asleep from exhaustion at school, Jacey isn't stupid. Sitting on the bed with the clean sheets and listening to the nice woman with the dark hair she nonetheless keeps an eye on the short man perched in the arm chair in the corner of the room.

The lawyer, Mrs Kowalzki is nice, explaining the legalities of how the fostering system works and how she can apply to see her brothers and sisters. What she's entitled to and what's going to happen next. Jacey listens calmly, filing away the information in her mind. Testifying against Grayson Kent isn't something that she thinks twice about. Even if she didn't want him to pay for what he did it was a matter of self preservation – unless he was behind bars she'd never really be free. Nor would her siblings. She knows what leverage is and how people like him use it. She signs what she's asked to when presented with papers that will allow her visitation rights and others from something called the bluebird foundation that helps people in her situation. As well as a small apartment that she can stay in rent free there is a bank account already set up in her new name and the promise of a generous monthly allowance until the trial is over and she's earning money of her own. It sounds far too good to be true but everything looks legal and Mrs Kowalzki takes care to make sure that she understands everything that has and will happen. When the lawyer leaves, giving her a business card and an assurance that she would be in touch and was always available, Jacey expects Mr Wren to go with her, and is a little alarmed when he merely shakes the lawyer's hand and sits back down in the chair. He doesn't look threatening – from the stiff way he moves she figures that he'd been in an accident once or maybe had been born with a disability. If he'd wanted to kill her he'd hardly have sat around listening to all her legal troubles with the nice lawyer he was obviously friendly with anyway.

Obviously sensing her unease, Mr Wren gives her a smile. His pale eyes lighten when he does so, giving him an almost impish look. Jacey suppresses a smile of her own.

"There's no need to be worried, Miss Brundett." His voice is soft, the words concise; he reminds her a little of a math teacher she'd had in school. "I mean you no harm. We have a mutual friend in common; John."

"John?" Seriously? Two less alike people she couldn't imagine, but then who else would have sent him there? "Okay..." Not very eloquent but she's not sure what to say. "Do you two like work together or something?"

"Something like that." Harold smiles again and this time she lets herself smile back. "We're partners of a kind."

Partners... She gives Mr Wren a quick once over. Expensively dressed, attractive in a quirky way. Not drop dead gorgeous like John had been and completely without his air of controlled violence.

"What exactly are you partners in?" Jacey asks eventually. "Are you like Bruce Wayne and he's Batman?"

Harold laughs delightedly. "What a charming analogy. I fear that Christian Bale looks a lot better in a suit than I do though. John fills that role admirably however as I'm sure you'd agree."

"So long as the woman whose picture is on his phone thinks so," Jacey agrees. "We made her a pumpkin pie."

"He sent me a photo. I imagine that you did most of the work however." When she blushes and looks away he continues. "Since room service here leaves a lot to be desired I brought you these." Reaching inside the leather satchel that sat beside his chair, he pulls out a couple of restaurant menus. "One should not skimp on a thanksgiving meal. Order whatever you like under the name Miss Wren to be delivered here, it will be charged to my account."

Jacey takes the sheaf of paper and glances at the headings. One of the restaurants she recognises from celebrity magazines, the other she does not. The prices next to the items on the menu have her blinking in disbelief. "Mr Wren... I can't...I don't even know what half this stuff is." Feeling utterly out of her depth, the past few days start catching up with her and she fights back tears. After everything you fall apart over ordering dinner?she castigates herself angrily. It's a nice gesture from the man, but one that she has no idea how to process, let alone accept. "Thanksgiving is usually a chicken burger and whatever the kids want to watch on tv. "Wall-E" or a "Simpsons" marathon usually."

"Well then." He limps over slowly and pats her on the shoulder in what she supposes is a paternal gesture. "Let's have a re-think. Chicken burgers with all the trimmings and cartoons instead? I could make it a turkey burger if you'd like to get into the holiday spirit?"

"I'm not really sure I'm really in the mood for holiday spirit." Jacey gives the older man a watery smile. "Are you going to stay?" She's only known him for a few minutes but the hope that he will agree surprises her with its intensity. Not celebrating thanksgiving is one thing, spending it alone is something entirely different.

"If you'd like me to. But I insist you call me Harold." After a moment he gives her a rueful look. "I think you'll have to educate me on the best fast-food establishments though, I fear that I'm woefully under-qualified in that department."

"I can do that." Reaching for the hotel telephone she gives his hand a quick squeeze. "Happy thanksgiving Harold."

"And to you, Jacey."

Settling back into his uncomfortable chair Harold watches her ask to be put through to something called "King Kevin's Burger Bar." Alright the food would probably be terrible and the furnishings were not to his taste, but it's still the happiest he's felt on a thanksgiving for a long, long time.


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Taylor had cooked the turkey to perfection, forgotten to take out the roast potatoes so that they resembled lumps of coal and hadn't put any of the other vegetables on at all. Given the circumstances Carter thought he'd done a pretty good job.

He greets her with a cross between exasperation and relief and John with a great deal more respect, especially when he'd been told that the reason that he was limping was because he'd been shot. Joss considers pointing out that she'd been shot too, but even though she'd had the sense to wear a Kevlar vest, Taylor could do without that image in his head. She'd soak some of the soreness out in a bath later and make do with a couple of painkillers swallowed when she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

Over a lot of turkey and stuffing and some hastily microwaved carrots and beans, conversation flowed surprisingly well. John didn't offer up any information about himself really; that was to be expected, but he spoke with knowledge and passion about basketball and seemed genuinely interested in Taylor's opinions about his hopes for college and his thoughts on the future.

The pumpkin pie despite its appearance was delicious, Taylor the traitor asking for thirds. John gave her a smile of such smugness when her son went into the kitchen that Carter barely restrained herself from tossing a napkin at him.

Later when John and Taylor are halfway through the second game of Black Ops 2, Reese's leg propped up on a bean-bag, her son intent on a game that she's fairly sure the older man is letting him win, she finds herself pausing halfway though clearing up and just watching them. There's a bitter sweet feeling that makes her chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with the bruises on her ribs. When John laughs at one of Taylor's silly jokes she stacks up the plates and heads back into the kitchen.

It's only a little past nine when Reese calls for a cab. Taylor would have liked him to stay longer, but Joss understands. She's exhausted herself and John's pain meds must have started to wear off at least an hour ago. After he's said goodnight to her son she accompanies him down in the elevator and stands next to him in the crisp cold night. There isn't much traffic. Their breath makes little entwining dragons in the frigid air.

"You can come back, you know."

Her hip is propped against the door, her eyes a lot softer than the rather defensive words.

"I will."

In the dark the flash of John's white teeth would look predatory if she didn't know him better.

"Just call me first and check Taylor's otherwise occupied." Even in the darkness she can see his pupils dilate. "There's a few things we need to sort out between us."

Yeah, there are. But tonight isn't about unpacking their mutual baggage or discussing the danger that lurks around every corner. Leaning forward Joss puts a hand on his shoulder and kisses him gently. He's compliant, his mouth soft and sweet from the pumpkin pie, an intriguing contrast to the unyielding strength beneath her fingers. Pulling away is difficult but she does so after a few moments. There's an unspoken this is just the start, when he briefly rests his forehead against hers.

The cab driver flashes his lights as he pulls up and they both laugh.

"Happy thanksgiving John."

"Thank-you for sharing it with me." He lets her go and limps off towards the cab. Joss raises her hand in farewell but it's too dark to see if he does the same once he's closed the car door behind him. Licking her lips she smiles to herself. There's still a little taste of him there, along with the knowledge that the real meal is yet to come.

When she ascends the stairs to the apartment and opens the door, the sight of "Toy Story" on pause and the popping of corn in the microwave makes her smile. From the clashing of glass bowls Taylor still hasn't remembered that the popcorn bowl is kept on the shelf above the microwave.

Yeah, Joss thinks. Not exactly a traditional thanksgiving, but certainly one to remember.